


And These Pearls That Were Her Eyes

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth/Last Alliance, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Dangerous topic w/satisfying end, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - Good pacing, Subjects - Culture(s), Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2003-09-13
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:11:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3767738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the final two days of her life, Tar-Miriel, last queen of Numenor, reflects upon her unhappy marriage, her one moment of bravery, and her ultimate fate.  Explicit non-con sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Foreword: The last queen of Numenor, Tar-Miriel, is only mentioned briefly by Tolkien in the “Akallabeth,” but that mention is so poetic and haunting that she becomes one of the most unforgettable denizens of Arda. In this story, set during the day before and the morning of the Downfall, she reflects upon her unhappy forced marriage to her usurping cousin Ar-Pharazon and confronts her ultimate fate.

 

********

“My lady, the sun has risen. It is time for you to awake.”

Miriel opened her eyes unwillingly, blinking as the brilliant white sunshine poured across her bed and burned her eyelids. The handmaiden had flung open the shutters and drawn back the curtains, she realized, showing an ingrained carelessness about the wishes of her royal mistress. _Since I do not recognize her, she must be another wench that Pharazon has set to spy upon me. Shall he never give me even a little peace?_ But she knew the answer already, for none who attended her now were of the Faithful; her husband and his chief counselor had seen to that, particularly since the theft of Nimloth’s fruit. She wondered hazily where Pharazon was at this moment; it had been thirty-eight days since he sailed to the West, to challenge the Valar and their ban. _Maybe I will be fortunate and he will die and the rest of us will not pay the price for his folly._ The thought was unexpectedly comforting.

She sat up slowly, propping herself up against the numerous and elaborately decorated pillows. They were the same shade of dusky plum as the embroidered silk coverlet she pushed away from her slender form, and all were stitched with beads and pearls. It was indeed a bed befitting a queen, particularly she who reigned over the most splendid realm of the Edain even seen in all of Arda. But the rich beauty of her bed’s trappings, like all the glories that surrounded her every day of her long life, left her cold and indifferent. What joy could she take in material things, when she was fading away? Even as she stretched and yawned, the daily chant that haunted her waking hours began thrumming in her mind.

_All is emptiness and all is vanity, for am I not one of the Faithful who has utterly failed the Valar? Can you forgive me, my father, for not having the strength to hold on to your throne, for allowing Numenor to descend further into darkness?_

“Your breakfast awaits you upon the terrace. We shall prepare your bath as you eat.”

Miriel nodded, not deigning to speak, and the handmaiden gave a submissive bow before withdrawing to the bathing chamber. She climbed out of bed, wrapping herself in a silken robe, and padded across the marble floor barefoot to step through the open doors onto the terrace. While standing at the railing, the Queen of Numenor surveyed the kingly city spread out below her.

Armenelos the Golden glittered in the sunlight, its towers and domes and minarets rearing skyward as though aspiring to exceed the Meneltarma itself. Their marble stones shone white, with colored mosaics flashing tiny rainbows everywhere. She could hear the city stirring, the voices of the women buying food in the market and of old men sharing breakfast drinks, the shouts of children playing in the streets. The orange and almond trees below the terrace wafted their sweet perfumes up to her, filling the air.

But the foul smell belching from the great smoke-blackened temple dome that dominated the hill in the middle of Armenelos hopelessly tainted the beauty of the scene. _And yet,_ she thought with a shudder, _the stench of those burning bodies sacrificed to Melkor is not half as poisonous as the smell of Nimloth’s wood charred . . ._

She had tried desperately that day to escape Pharazon’s demand she attend the ceremony at the new temple. He would accept no excuses or pleas of bad health, threatening to have two or three of his biggest slaves carry her there by force. She submitted then, just as she always had, hating herself with each step she took in the procession that wended its way to the mount. But her husband could not make her look on the Lord Annatar—no, Sauron—with a kindly eye. She refused to even glance at Pharazon’s chief counselor; rather she stared straight ahead, her face frozen into a blank expression. No one could perceive how she was dying inside while the flames Sauron kindled licked at the wood of the sacred tree, consuming it and destroying with it the last faint hope that Numenor might be redeemed. _Oh, Father, you foresaw this evil . . ._

Her only comfort was her knowledge that the seeds from Nimloth’s stolen fruit surely survived, nurtured by the devoted hands of Elendil and his sons. She hugged her secret to herself with fierce joy, delighted she had succeeded in aiding Isildur without detection. At long last she had accomplished something worthwhile, though she often wondered what fate had in store for the little sapling. When she felt a smile creeping onto her face, she quickly steeled her features into icy immobility again, thankful her husband did not have the power to read thoughts.

She had expected that Pharazon would come to her chamber that night to punish her for her defiance as he so often had in their early years together. He had always enjoyed humiliating her by using her like a common strumpet from the streets, making her engage in the most perverse acts he could conjure up. But he left her alone, too preoccupied by his Great Armament and his mad plans to sail to Valinor to bother tormenting his seemingly ineffectual wife.

Miriel turned away from the rail abruptly, willing herself as she had for most of the past sixty-four years to forget her marriage and her husband. She hurried over to the breakfast table and sat down, determined to savor her meal, and that meant not thinking about Pharazon. She drank the sweet milk her herd of specially tended goats provided her, and slowly ate the delicate pastries and fruits, truly tasting everything for once instead of only eating the smallest amount needed to sustain her body. She was nibbling the last few crumbs from a particularly luscious cake when the servile handmaiden reappeared.

“What is it?” asked Miriel sharply, displeased at having her brief moment of pleasure interrupted.

“Your bath is ready, my lady, and the water will cool soon. Will you not come in?” Her bow was even more obsequious than before.

“Yes.” She stood up and walked deliberately to the bathing chamber, deciding on a whim to keep the woman in her bent posture as long as possible. Miriel felt a brief stab of shame that she would torment another as she had suffered, but it faded and was replaced by cool satisfaction. She approached the sunken pool and reluctantly allowed herself to be divested of her gossamer gown and robe.

“Please, my lady, do step in,” the chief handmaiden said anxiously.

Miriel slowly submerged her body in the warm fragrant water; several of her women bent towards her, their thin gowns billowing out as they gathered around and began bathing her. She struggled not to flinch at the contact with their flesh; how she loathed others touching her, for the slightest touch so often brought back the evil memories she had spent a lifetime hiding away. She took no pleasure in their ministrations or in the beauty of her unclothed form. Many poets extolled her exquisite appearance, hailing her as the only true jewel of Numenor, fairer than anything else known to the Edain despite her comparative lack of height. But her raven hair, grey eyes, and flawless figure inspired no vanity in her, for her beauty had only earned her an unwanted marriage.

One of the women cupped her breast gently for a moment as she washed it; a tiny flash passed through Miriel as the gesture made her recall the one time a man had touched her with any tenderness. _Oh, Isildur!_ But revulsion overwhelmed that small spark as the hands traveled lower, forcing her memory further back, to what Pharazon had done to her, long ago. She could not control her mental journey, for every touch drove her further into the past . . .

Sixty-four years since the sceptre had passed to her, and how confident she had been that she could rule alone as Tar-Telperien had! She took the throne with dreams of continuing Palantir’s efforts to restore the ancient faith and loyalties, and therefore winning back the favor of both the Valar and the Eldar. The first six months of her reign were not easy, for there was much muttering against her policies, but when the discontent quieted to a dull murmur, she foolishly thought the worst was over, and even led a procession to the top of the Meneltarma in due course.

That selfsame night, she awoke to the naked form of her cousin and spurned suitor kneeling over her, his face contorted with mingled contempt and lust. She tried to scream as she arched her body up, but Pharazon clapped a hand over her mouth and laughed coldly.

“You think a guard will come? No one can hear you, my dear queen, for many support me, and those who do not have been bribed into absence. Since you chose to reject me when I offered myself to you freely, you have made me take the other path. I do hope you enjoy being raped.”

She wept in fear and disbelief as she pulled his hand away from her mouth. “No, you would not dare! I am Queen of Numenor still, and I will have your head if you take me, I swear it!”

He laughed again, a chilling sound in the echoing darkness of her chamber. “Fine words, Miriel, but we shall see if you truly dare to speak of what I do to you—I doubt you will.” He snatched up a scarf he had laid next to her and gagged her mouth, then he tied her hands to the bedposts with a length of rope as she writhed wildly. “Oh, yes, this is going to be pleasant, most pleasant. . .”

She struggled valiantly, but her petite figure was easily overpowered by Pharazon’s superior strength. She closed her eyes then, but she could not stop the sensations of the knee between her legs, forcing them apart, and the rough fingers invading her most secret parts, bruising the flesh and making her swoon. _No, no, no, help me, please, not this, anything but this!_ When the fingers were replaced by the smooth head of Pharazon’s manhood, she nearly fainted, but he slapped her hard to keep her conscious.

“Oh no, you will feel this, sweet cousin, whether you will or not.” He grabbed her flailing hips, holding her for a moment, and then he thrust deeply into her with a groan as he tore her maidenhead brutally. A muffled scream was ripped from her throat as her head lolled back, her entire body and mind in agony. _Why is this happening, why am I being punished, no, no, no . . ._ She willed herself to become numb as Pharazon prolonged matters for an unbearable time, riding her harder and harder until at last he gasped, his body trembling as he spilled his hateful seed into her; he did not move for a few minutes, but kept her pinned with his weight as the tears flowed down her cheeks and she prayed she would not conceive. He finally rolled off her with an animal-like grunt and untied her. He stooped down and hissed into her ear, “In eight days, I will ask again for your hand in marriage, and if you decline me, I swear you will discover that what I have done tonight is positively mild compared to what the future holds for you. Be warned!”

He left her weeping, his robe whispering in the darkness as he put it on and strode away. She crawled into her bathing pool as soon as he was gone, scrubbing her skin raw as she tried to banish his smell and touch. But nothing could blot out the horror of what she had endured, and she cried herself to sleep after collapsing on her bed. She stayed there that morning when her ladies awoke her, claiming she felt ill but refusing to see her physician.

She had been far braver in those days, though, and roused herself from her stupor after a few hours, determined not to succumb to Pharazon’s vicious blackmail. She bathed and dressed herself after dismissing all her ladies, and scribbled a desperate note to Amandil, sure that the lord of Andunie would honor her request for some of his men to be sent to her as a new guard even though she did not tell him why she needed them so badly. He had always been her father’s most loyal counselor, and leader of the Faithful; she wished now she had chosen to marry his older son when her father suggested it. She summoned the one rider she could trust and sent the lad galloping off to Amandil’s estate in haste, praying the Valar would grant her a miracle and that aid would arrive before it was too late.

The rider returned only a hour before Pharazon was due to have an audience with her on the eighth day, clutching a note from Amandil that promised her his son Elendil would soon be at the palace with a hundred armed and mounted men. She folded it and tucked into the bodice of her dress, the crackle of the parchment lending her courage as she endured her cousin’s florid proposal during their private twilight meeting. He stopped speaking and looked at her expectantly. She stared back, her head held proudly.

“No,” she snapped, “and you may remove yourself from my presence.”

Pharazon’s face was a study in disbelief; it would have comical if he had not also appeared so enraged. He pivoted on his heel and stormed out of the throne room, leaving her gloating silently. _Ha! You thought I had not a scrap of our ancestors’ courage—now you learn that the blood of Tar-Minyatur runs true in my veins!_ She summoned her ladies and directed them to prepare a new bedchamber for her that night, and to keep its location concealed. She retired with a feeling of smugness, sure Pharazon would never find her in the great maze of the palace even if he dared try.

But she was wrong, for he awakened her in the depths of the night, his eyes blazing with venom as he attacked her afresh. This time he made sure he violated her thoroughly, using every orifice of her body to slake his lust. When he finished ravishing her for the last time, he kept her pinned again, this time on her stomach; the pain burned along her nerves as she wept at the unnatural invasion and her mind slowly shattered into a thousand pieces.

Pharazon chuckled, drew her hair away from her ear, and whispered in a voice heavy with threat, “Say no once more, my darling cousin, and not only will I do this to you tomorrow night, but a half dozen of my most loyal men will accompany me and watch as I do. Then it will be their turn to feast upon your charms while I enjoy the spectacle. Is that what you want? Hmm, perhaps you do. Have you acquired a taste for the more decadent pleasures of the flesh?”

Her nerve broke completely at that threat; she could endure no more, for she knew now she could rely on no one’s loyalty, not her ladies or her guards, and she was unsure when Elendil might come to her. She babbled, “No, no, not that, I beg you! Please, let me up and I shall say yes!” She sobbed openly, hoping to move him a little.

He eased away from her and let her turn over and sit up. “You will marry me, Miriel?” he asked softly, in a parody of real courtship. She fought off her nausea and nodded.

“Yes, I will marry you, but only if you pledge to never enter my bed again.” She wondered if she went too far in making such a demand, but he smiled mockingly.

“Fair enough if the sceptre is part of the bargain. You will announce it in the morning?”

“Yes. Now leave me, please,” she choked out, her throat thick with tears. He did so, glancing back at her in obvious triumph.

And so she proclaimed her planned marriage to her cousin that morning, ignoring the gasps of dismay from those of the Faithful who still advised her. She set the ceremony for the following afternoon; when Elendil arrived some three hours after her announcement, he immediately met with her privately and tried to persuade her to revoke her decision, reminding her of the ban on marrying kin that close in blood. She sat there like an insensible statue, his eloquence failing to register in her blank mind. She merely shook her head and whispered, “It must be this way—I am sorry, but I have no choice now.” He pressed her for an explanation, but she could not speak of her sufferings despite his clear sympathy and concern.

Elendil attended the wedding the next day, his eyes reflecting her own disbelief and grief at what was happening. He departed that evening, leaving her to the tender mercies of her new husband. _And no sooner did he leave than Pharazon showed his true colors and broke his promise. . . I should have killed him in his sleep!_ Before she could indulge her fantasy in more detail, she became aware of her shoulders being lightly shaken.

“My lady, forgive us for disturbing you, but your bath is long finished and the water is cold. Please, allow us to dry you and robe you for the day.”

She listlessly climbed out of the pool; they carefully dried her, as though she were a child, and attired her in a dress with layers of blue and green silk, making her appear like a sea goddess. They tied golden sandals upon her small feet, and brushed her thick black hair until it shone with purplish-blue lights. When they asked what jewels she wanted, she did not hesitate.

“The most splendid of my pearls, all of them. Lord Ulmo’s gifts shall grace me well.”

“Is that wise, my lady?” The chief handmaiden lifted a thin eyebrow, her lips pursed. “The Lord Annatar wishes to meet with you soon, and he will not be happy at such a display.”

“I care not,” she said tartly. “Fetch them, if you please.”

They did so, draping her in strand after strand of the lustrous pearls Cirdan the Shipwright had sent to Tar-Telperien hundred of years earlier. She caressed them as they fell across her dress, admiring their shimmering pastel shades of cream, rose, green, and gold. It was a petty act of resistance to Sauron’s influence, she knew, but it was satisfying nevertheless, just like her humiliation of the maid. She felt a whisper of regret that she no longer possessed the loveliest strand, the violet-hued one, but at least they were in good hands; that too was a small comfort. The chief handmaiden cleared her throat and said, “When shall I tell Lord Annatar you will grant him audience?”

“After I hear my other subjects’ petitions, and after I attend to any other matters that need my attention, whatever they may be.” She dismissed the women with a curt wave of her hand, and walked to the throne room with measured pace, not particularly eager to hurry through her duties if that meant she would have to confront Sauron sooner rather than later.

She spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon listening to the endless petitions of her various subjects, both the high and lowborn, for it was a point of pride with her to hear the plea of anyone regardless of how poor he or she might be. She only stopped to partake of a leisurely lunch, and found herself hoping that Sauron had grown tired of waiting when the afternoon went on without interruption. But when her Lord Steward leaned down to whisper to her midway through a long petition from the fishermen of Nisimaldar, she realized with a sinking heart that she would not be spared on this day.

“My queen, the Lord Annatar says he must speak with you immediately. May I tell everyone to withdraw?”

She sighed. “Did he say what he wishes to speak of with me?”

“No, only that it is important.”

Miriel knew she was brought to bay. “Very well, then.”

The Steward stood up and called out, “Her Majesty Ar-Zimraphel must regretfully terminate this audience and ask you all to withdraw! Thank you!” She had to fight the urge to wince at the hated Adunaic name Pharazon had imposed on her when he claimed the sceptre. As the bowing, murmuring crowd departed, the Steward asked, “May I send the Lord Annatar to you now?”

“Not yet—wait a half hour. I need time to organize my thoughts.”

“Very well.” He bowed deeply and left her alone in the throne room’s vastness. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back onto the carved stone chair, searching her mind for a good memory she could use to arm herself against Sauron’s abhorrent presence. She irresistibly turned to the best memory of all, the night Isildur had come to her and they plotted to achieve his dangerous deed of defiance. _Would that I had that kind of courage again,_ she thought sadly. _Then I might be standing beside you and yours at this very moment, Isildur. Try to understand, my cousin, and remember my one night of valor, as I do._

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the final two days of her life, Tar-Miriel, last queen of Numenor, reflects upon her unhappy marriage, her one moment of bravery, and her ultimate fate. Explicit non-con sex.

She remembered the coolness of the late autumn afternoon she saw him. It had been cloudy and blustery, hardly ideal weather for visiting the marketplace near the palace. But she insisted on going, ignoring the grumbling of her ladies, for she was restless and anxious and felt the need to flee her oppressive quarters.

Miriel wandered about the market square bundled up in her warmest wool cloak, her ladies trailing after her as they began shopping themselves. She approached a jeweler’s booth, intent on inspecting his handiwork. Crouched nearby was a crippled sailor, a patch on one eye, a crutch tucked under an arm, and silver streaks in his hair. Such men were a common sight in Armenelos, the discarded and mangled flotsam of their king’s quest for empire. He peered up and thrust a leather pouch at her.

“Pearls for sale, my lady! The very finest in the market today, fished from the coast of Andunie.” She heard the jeweler’s snort of skepticism, but took the pouch and opened it.

“You are right, these are very beautiful,” she said politely. “How much are you asking for them?” As she spoke, she looked full into his face for the first time, and her breath caught in her throat. Despite the eye patch, the grime, and the passage of years, she recognized the man before her in disbelief.

_Isildur._ She stared at him incredulously. What was Elendil’s eldest son doing disguised in the very heart of Armenelos? It had been long since any of his family had so much as set foot in the city, for Pharazon had finally forbidden any of the Faithful to venture into his courts and palaces. Her mind raced; there was surely some plot afoot, though she could not imagine what it could be. She forced herself to remain calm, since excitement would betray everything. She shook out several pearls and studied them closely while she considered what to do.

Isildur spoke, his voice coarsened and rough. “I would sell these for a dear price to most, but you are a fair lady, so I will take only a few coins.” His one visible eye gleamed as he waited for Miriel to respond. She realized he knew she had identified him.

“That is very kind of you, but I have no desire to cheat one who has given his all to our kingdom. Do you have any other pearls like this? If you do, I wish to see them, and perhaps to purchase them as well.”

“I do possess some larger ones, my lady, but they are hidden in my humble abode. Is there a time I could call upon you to display them?”

She silently blessed her distant cousin’s quick wit. “Certainly there is—come to the palace at sunset and you shall show me your best quality gems.” One of her ladies, young Melwa, came up behind her and gasped in shock. “Your Majesty, is it wise to invite this man to have audience with you?”

Miriel fixed her with a withering look, for while Melwa was one of the secretly Faithful she kept by her side, she frequently spoke without thinking. “Of course it is! He has already served his king well in battle, and I shall never turn away one of my worthy subjects. I am not entirely proud yet.”

“The Queen, eh?” Isildur was exhibiting a surprising skill at acting. “Well then, luck is with this old sailor today. Much honour you grant me, majesty. I will be at the palace at sunset.” He climbed to his feet and hobbled off in a half-crouch. She watched him go, praying he would not be recognized by anyone else. Anxiety edged her tone as she pulled her cloak tightly around her and called to her ladies.

“Come, let us return to the palace, for the wind grows sharp! Hurry!”

The pace she kept while walking back left most panting for breath, but she did not care. Her heart was pounding, her fears bubbling up as she thought of Isildur captured, tortured, killed . . . _Not if I can prevent it! Now at last I have the opportunity to be brave and help my true kin, the way I should have years ago._

The next hours crawled by at a tormenting rate. It took a supreme effort of will for her to carry on with her usual duties. Finally, she saw the sun sinking below the western horizon. The table in her chamber had just been set for her evening supper when Melwa entered with a bow.

“That sailor whom you asked to call on you has arrived. Shall I escort him into the throne room?”

“No, bring him here to my chamber. He shall sup with me, for I am sure he is famished.” Melwa opened her mouth to protest, but Miriel did not allow her to utter a word. “I have given you an order! Fetch the man here immediately! And keep everyone else away—I wish to speak to him privately.” Realizing she needed to quell any gossip, she added weakly, “I seek a present for the King, and these pearls shall suit admirably once they are placed in a suitable setting by the royal jeweler. Now go, please.”

Melwa nodded and hurried away. A few minutes later, she returned with the disguised Isildur in tow. His crutch echoed loudly on the marble floors as he slowly made his way towards her in crab-like fashion.

“Here is the man, Your Majesty. I have informed the others you wish to be alone with him, and why. Is there any other service you require?”

“No. I thank you for your pains.”

Melwa bowed again and departed. Miriel looked at the floor and waited in silence until she heard the door click shut. Only then did she lift her head and stare at her guest.

“Isildur,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Yes, Isildur,” he repeated as he straightened up to his full height and tossed aside the crutch. He reached up, tore off the eye patch, and then gazed at her with mingled amusement and concern as he wiped the grime off his face with a cloth. “So are you happy to see me, my fair cousin, and are you not inclined to summon the guards? Or is my father right that you have become one of the King’s party, and no longer keep the old faith?”

“Never will I be one of Pharazon’s minions!” She was shocked at how vehement she sounded. “How dare Elendil think that of me!”

“You married him,” said Isildur in open challenge.

“Not willingly, I assure you.” To her shame, she felt her throat constrict with unshed tears. She steeled herself as she had so often, grabbing the back of a chair before she spoke again. “But that is a long tale, and one we need not belabour this night. Why are you here? Surely you know that you are in deadly peril every moment you linger within Armenelos—you must leave as soon as possible.”

“Not until I have accomplished my errand, my lady.”

“Which is?”

He studied her intently before speaking. “I come to steal one of the fruits of Nimloth, so that it will not perish forever at the hands of the King and his counselor. Or are the rumors that Lord Sauron’s evil tongue begs that the White Tree be cut down untrue?”

“They are true, I fear. But why did your father send you to perform this task? Surely it would have been safer to send someone whose face is not known to Pharazon.”

“Elendil did not send me; he does not know what I am about. I decided to do this deed after Amandil came to us all and told us what Sauron desired. Neither does Anarion possess any knowledge, for I refuse to risk my family’s lives, only my own.” He sighed heavily. “But now I fear I have imperiled you, my lady, by accepting your invitation and sheltering under your roof. I should hide elsewhere, so you are not implicated.”

Miriel shook her head vigorously. “No, I shall see this out with you to the bitter end, no matter what the price may prove to be. Long have I despaired over Nimloth’s fate and wondered what I could do to prevent it. Now you give me the chance to redeem my father’s memory by preserving it in some form, and perhaps some hope for Numenor shall spring from its seedling as well.” She gestured at the chair opposite her. “Now sit and eat, and I shall tell you all you need to know while you refresh yourself.”

Isildur did so, eating and drinking little as she spoke in a low, urgent whisper next to him. She told him of the guard placed upon the Tree day and night at Sauron’s command, their numbers, location, and the hours of each watch, so that he might plan when best to slip into the courtyard. She also told him of the various places within the palace where he could conceal himself both before and after his escapade. He asked no questions, but listened carefully to her. It was not until she fell silent that he spoke again.

“You have helped me more than I imagined you would when I ventured upon this deed and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You were the only one I dared approached, and you have vindicated my faith in you.”

“You are very welcome, my cousin, and it pleases me that not all the lords of Andunie think ill of their anointed queen.” She could not keep the bitterness out of her voice.

Isildur leaned towards her and laid his large hand over her small one. “You said you did not marry him willingly. Will you not tell me what happened? Amandil and Elendil have never understood why you did so, and I would set their minds at ease about your loyalties, if you allow me.”

“I cannot speak of it—it is too horrible for words, and I will not pollute your ears with the sorry tale.” She was appalled to feel the hot tears begin to trickle down her cheeks. He lifted his hand and caught a tear on a finger as he stroked her face.

“Oh, my darling Miriel, has it been so hard for you?”

His tone was caressingly gentle, as was his touch; she never imagined that such a strong man could be so tender. Her long-cherished defenses came tumbling down with a crash, and she found herself weeping openly. Isildur made an inarticulate sound of pity, and then he scooped her up like she was a child. She slumped against his broad chest as he cradled her, his massive strength making her feel safe for the first time since her father had died. She wrapped her slim arms around his neck and kept crying, and as she did, the words came babbling out of her, broken sentences that gradually conveyed something of the pain and suffering and fear Pharazon had inflicted on her from the very beginning. As her recitation continued, she could feel Isildur’s arms tightening around her. When her sobbing ceased, he spat out, “The ill-birthed scum! The beasts of the field have more consideration for their mates than he has mustered for his wife and queen! I should go find him and run him through on the spot!”

She looked at him in alarm. “No! Do not be a fool! I have endured so far, and will keep enduring! My life is not worth the sacrifice of yours, I promise you, and you have other things to do tonight.”

He cupped her head in his hands. “You think so little of yourself, Miriel, but I see now the nature of your sacrifice. You have given up your life and your happiness to protect we Faithful, and I shall always remember what you have done.” He bent his head and kissed her lightly.

She was taken aback at the feel of his lips on hers; they were unexpectedly soft and warm. A tiny moan erupted from the back of her throat as desire stirred in her, the first taste of it in all her many years. Isildur heard her and continued to kiss her, his mouth exploring hers until her lips parted underneath his. Suddenly she was on fire, her core growing hot as she pressed against him with a wanton disregard for the difference in their ages, their blood relationship, and the desperate urgency of the night. He finally broke off and looked at her, his eyes smoky with longing as his hands traced the outlines of her curves, making her tremble.

“Shall I linger still, Miriel, and teach you the true ways of desire? For now I know that you have never been pleasured, never felt the ecstasy that your body can give you. Would you let me show you what the flesh is capable of, my beautiful queen?”

“You cannot,” she said huskily. “Time flits by even as we tarry here. I must take you to your other hiding place.” She kissed him again. “But you have given me a great gift, just with this. This shall be a memory I cling to in the dark when the pain becomes too great.” She slid off his lap and extended her hand to him. “Come, Isildur.”

She led him down one of the secret stairways concealed behind the walls of her chamber to an anteroom near the place of the White Tree, where he could wait until the proper hour came. As she turned to go, he drew her close and kissed her passionately once more. He buried his face in her raven tresses, his voice muffled as he spoke.

“Leave with me tonight, my queen, and come to Romenna. There you shall rule over the Faithful and sail with us to the East when disaster strikes, as it surely will. We shall raise a new kingdom of the Edain in Middle-earth and all shall hail your beauty and wisdom—me not least of all.”

“I cannot, Isildur. Were I to join the Faithful, Pharazon would unleash his long-delayed vengeance and kill all of you. Do not tempt me with such a vision, for it is too late for me.” She stared up at him through her tears. “And you have a wife already.”

“So I do, and my love for her is great,” he murmured. “But not as great as my love for you in this moment.” He touched her mouth with the tip of his finger. “Very well, my queen. Go, and may the Valar guard and protect you always, Miriel.”

“And you, my beloved cousin,” she whispered. Illogically, she wanted to give him some token of remembrance, something that would keep his memory of this night evergreen. Her fingers strayed to the strand of pearls around her neck; they were an extraordinary shade of violet, the rarest by far of all the ancestral jewels she owned. She took them off and pressed them into Isildur’s hand.

“Take these, and think of me when you look upon them. Long have I cherished them, and it would bring me great joy to place them in your keeping.”

He lifted them to his lips as though they were sacred. “I shall protect them always, as long as I live, and they shall preserve the memory of the most beautiful jewel in Arda—Miriel, most queenly of women under the sky.” He kissed her once more, a bruising, fiery kiss that left her trembling with lust. “Now go,” he whispered against her mouth.

She pivoted and rushed away, determined he would see no more tears from her. She hastened back to her chamber, grateful none of her ladies had yet reentered, and flung herself onto her bed. When her maidens came to her and asked what was wrong, she claimed to be ill with a headache even as she kept weeping inside for the man who had just awakened her to real feeling, and for the lost chance to discover all she now hungered after.

She learned the next morning that Isildur had succeeded in stealing the fruit, but not before he had battled the guards and taken many wounds during his escape. His disguise had been good enough that no one knew who had committed the crime. Her part somehow remained secret as well, despite Pharazon’s cross-questioning and Sauron’s suspicions. She kept her face blank as her husband demanded answers, answers that were not forthcoming. Pharazon finally gave up, but not before he had dismissed all her ladies and replaced them with ones of his own choosing.

But the punishment did not hurt her as it once would have. The thought of both the successful theft and Isildur’s tenderness seemed to arm her against all of Pharazon’s petty viciousness, and as the years slipped by, it became a kind of charm for her, one she often evoked when grief threatened to overwhelm her.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the final two days of her life, Tar-Miriel, last queen of Numenor, reflects upon her unhappy marriage, her one moment of bravery, and her ultimate fate. Explicit non-con sex.

“How does your royal majesty today? I was concerned you might not be well, given your inability to grant me audience earlier.”

Miriel’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the voice, unctuously insinuating like honey laced with venom. Her flesh crawled as she contemplated the figure of Pharazon’s chief counselor standing before her. Few shared her revulsion, for Sauron was fair to look upon, more fair indeed than most beings in Middle-earth. His golden hair, tawny skin, and tall figure gave the Maia the aura of a flawless statue crafted by the hand of Iluvatar himself. But Miriel, both blessed and cursed with Palantir’s far sight, never saw his physical beauty, only the black and bitter ugliness of his heart that made her recoil whenever he set foot near her.

“I am well, Lord Annatar,” she replied, her expression a blank and tightly controlled mask. “Forgive me for the delay, but I had other duties to attend to, I fear.”

“I understand, my lady. Far be it for me to be churlish with someone both so beautiful and so wise.” The mockery in his eyes gave the lie to his seemingly deferential words.

“What did you wish to speak to me about? After all, it is not common for you to seek my counsel,” she said with asperity.

Sauron paused, his eyes narrowing, but he chose to ignore her barb. “Why, my lady, I must discuss the plans for the celebration we shall hold when our king returns victorious from Valinor. Naturally I believed I should defer to you, since he is your beloved husband.” His smile was pure poison as he uttered the hollow words.

Miriel in her turn waited before replying. “That is kind of you, Lord Annatar, and shows an admirable consideration for a wife’s feelings. But why are you so confident that His Majesty’s efforts will be crowned with success? I think the matter is far more uncertain than you presume.”

Sauron raised an eyebrow. “You surprise me, my lady. I thought that you of all people would see the inevitability of His Majesty’s triumph. You gazed upon the Great Armament as it set sail, with Aglarrama, most splendid of the sea’s castles, in the vanguard. Think you that even the Valar could defeat such a vast power?”

“I think, my lord, that the Valar are not to be trifled with, and I fear what may happen now that Pharazon has chosen to pursue such a dangerous course. Their vengeance may fall upon all of us, not merely those who have dared to violate the Ban.” Miriel wondered fleetingly if she had said too much, but then decided she had very little left to lose. She might as well speak her mind regardless of the consequences.

“Ah, yes, you still persist in believing in the Ban, do you not?” Sauron gave an elaborate shrug. “I suppose it is possible that you are correct, and that His Majesty might pay a heavy price for his boldness.” His eyebrow shot up again as a thought suddenly seemed to occur to him. “Of course, it is equally possible you would welcome such a fate for him, is it not?” he purred. “With His Majesty dead, you could reassume the sceptre and be sole ruler of Numenor once more. How pleased you would be then!”

Miriel’s jaw clenched. “I can promise you, Lord Annatar, that I hardly have been contemplating such a wild notion.”

“Oh, but I rather suspect that you have, my lady, in the depths of the night.” His words were weighted with veiled menace. “And I suspect you have also pondered who might become your new consort, a man to aid you in governing the kingdom—not to mention the other comforts he would be in a position to offer you.”

“You question my faithfulness as a loyal wife, my lord? Or do you persist in your foolish suspicions that I am in league with the Lords of Andunie?”

“Neither, my lady. I merely suggest that a woman of your keen perception has reflected on the future, and cast her gaze about for suitable replacements should the worst actually happen.” He stepped towards the throne, stopping only an arm’s length away. “And there are indeed a few suitable replacements, would you not agree?” Sauron looked her full in the face then, and the blazing lust in his eyes made her blood freeze. _May Varda protect me!_

She had always thought he wanted her as a sacrifice for his temple, but she knew now that she had underestimated his ambition. She realized in utter horror that the Maia plotted to emulate Pharazon and claim the throne through possession of her body. He was sure Pharazon would never return, despite his protestations to the contrary, and that everything would be his for the taking, including her.

Nausea surged up as she recalled the gossip that had reached her about his tastes in the orgies Pharazon had staged privately since bringing Sauron to Numenor. Rumor had it that Lord Annatar was a master of highly refined cruelty, pairing pleasure and pain skillfully and indulging himself with both men and women. There were even dark whispers that the King had become his preferred partner in such exercises, and that their decadent encounters took place in full view of the other participants. She had secretly hoped the tales were true, for it meant it was far less likely that Pharazon would disturb her nights.

But the look Sauron was bestowing upon her made her desperately hope that Pharazon would survive and come back to her, even if it meant being forced to share his bed again. The brutality she had already endured would be child’s play compared to what Sauron would inflict on her.

The color mounted in her face as Sauron continued his insolent appraisal. She remembered the last occasion he had treated her in the same fashion. It had been the night of the great feast in honour of the fleets’ departure. When the revelry grew increasingly wine-soaked, she excused herself and locked her chamber door, only to have Pharazon knock loudly an hour later.

“Come, Miriel,” he called, “come back to the hall. I wish for all to gaze on your matchless beauty once more.”

She opened the door and admitted him. “Must I?” she asked, sighing wearily.

“Yes.”

“Let me attire myself again,” she said as she turned away. She was startled when Pharazon seized her wrist in a bruising grip.

“Oh now,” he said, smirking horribly, “I want you to display your naked splendour before my men. You need only your crown and a robe, and that will be gone soon enough!”

“No! Why do you insist on humiliating me?” Tears sprang to her eyes.

"Because I wish it,” he snapped, “and you will do it, or I swear you will entertain more than one man in your bed tonight whether you will or not!”

She submitted again, just as she always did, for that was the one threat that never failed to bring her to heel. But she felt deep shame at her lack of courage, her unwillingness to challenge Pharazon to do his worst if he truly dared.

When she stood in the hall later, her robe hanging off her arms and the weight of the crown weighing on her forehead like lead, the tiny part of her mind that remained free of the appalled embarrassment paralyzing her noted that almost all of the King’s men averted their eyes after obeying Pharazon’s order to look upon her. Sauron alone stared at her openly, his fascinated gaze exploring her every detail, filling her with the need to scream in rage and tear at his face. She believed then he merely desired to put her in her place, but she had misread him thoroughly. _Well,_ she thought bitterly, _I may not have dealt with him then as he deserved, but I shall now, and let him complain until he has no breath left in his worthless body._ She stood up abruptly; the raised dais gave her the illusion of height and reinforced her imposing bearing.

“I shall take the planning in hand, my Lord Annatar. You need not concern yourself with anything. How soon do I have?” She awarded him an icy look that clearly said, _I am still queen of this realm, so do not presume to exceed your place yet._

Sauron stepped away from her, chagrin and respect flitting across his features as he realized he had overplayed his hand. He bowed as he spoke. “We must prepare as soon as possible, Your Majesty. My mind’s eye tells me that His Majesty Ar-Pharazon made landfall today, and that he shall camp on the slopes of Taniquetil this very evening.”

“Then I shall devote my evening to the future celebration. You may go now, so I have sufficient time to think of all that must be done.” Her tone made it plain she would brook no disagreement with her dismissal.

Sauron nodded. “Very well, Your Majesty. I shall speak to you tomorrow morning.”

She kept standing as he walked backward and bowed his way out of the throne room. Only after he had vanished completely did Miriel sit down, her legs trembling uncontrollably.

_Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow is when all will be decided for good or ill, and Iluvatar shall measure out Numenor’s sins._ She climbed to her feet and began drifting to the west side of the palace. When she arrived at her terrace again, she stripped her mind and focused it. The faint images of men wandering the shores of Valinor came to her, and she knew Sauron for once had not lied. She stared into the West and prayed as she had never prayed before in her life.

_O great Iluvatar, creator of the world, take pity upon the innocent and spare Numenor your wrath. Take my life in sacrifice for Pharazon’s evil deeds, but do not punish all the Edain by condemning them to endless suffering or death. Look into my heart and see my abiding faith, I beg of you._

She continued to gaze at the setting sun as she prayed. Word had come to her secretly that Amandil had sailed West on a hopeless mission of mercy, convinced the Valar would grant his petition to spare Numenor. She wondered if he had foundered at sea, or if had arrived in the Undying Lands only to be refused.

The thought of Amandil summoned up thoughts of his grandson again, and she recrossed the palace corridors, ignoring everyone. She stood upon an eastward-facing balcony then, her eyes piercing the gathering dusk as she looked towards Romenna and the hot tears flowed silently down her cheeks.

_Isildur, Isildur, are you caressing my pearls and thinking of me even as I think of you? I thought I was prepared to offer myself up as the ultimate sacrifice, but now that I turn my mind to you, I realize I am more attached to life than I supposed. How I long for you! I would give anything to have you at my side in this moment, to feel your lips on mine as we join our bodies in ecstasy. Then could I die truly happy, as I have never been in my whole life._

She dipped her head as the sobs welled up, her grief mounting higher and higher as she recognized it was far too late for her. Her fate had been decided long ago by her weakness. She stayed there as night’s shadows fell about her, veiling her in darkness. When her women came in search of her, she would not tell them why she wept, but said, “I wish to remain here this evening. Fetch me food and prepare a bed here, for it is warm and I shall sleep outside.”

They did so with much puzzlement, and then left her alone as she ordered. After eating a little, she laid down and stared into the sky, hoping that Isildur was gazing upwards as well. It was a long time before sleep finally claimed her, the moon and the stars glittering above her as she drifted into oblivion.

  



	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the final two days of her life, Tar-Miriel, last queen of Numenor, reflects upon her unhappy marriage, her one moment of bravery, and her ultimate fate. Explicit non-con sex.

The next morning, the sharp cry of an eagle awoke her at dawn.

Miriel bolted upright, her eyes widening with shock as she saw the massive eagle lazily gliding above Armenelos. She heard it give another resounding cry before flying off into the west. _An Eagle of Manwe . . . oh no . . ._

_The day of our judgment has come at last!_

She rolled out of the makeshift bed, speeding down the twisting halls that led back to her chambers, her robe billowing behind her. One thought and one thought only was pounding through her mind, the final faint hope she had to cling to.

_I must go to the Meneltarma and pray, prostrate myself before all the Valar and beg them to intercede with Iluvatar to spare us._ Her own life meant little at this point, she believed, but she bled to think of all the innocent lives that hung in the balance between Pharazon’s gall and Iluvatar’s wrath. _Or maybe,_ she reflected, _I should be honest and admit that I am not quite ready to die after all, now that I know what it is to feel love. But if the price of Numenor’s salvation is my life, then I shall pay it willingly. It is time that the Queen truly served her subjects, for I have failed in that until now._

Miriel rushed into her quarters, and for the very first time she failed to bathe, only splashing cold water on her face. She only paused to stand at the balcony rail and cast her sight to the west; she could see again her husband's troops gathering for the attack upon the Valar. She gasped in fear and scooped up her used clothes from the floor, not willing to take any more extra time. She had just finished dressing when the first of her handmaidens arrived. They stared at her in surprise.

“My lady,” one asked nervously, “what means this? Do you not require our help? We should brush your hair—”

“No need for that, because there is no time!” She stomped her feet into riding boots, and grabbed a thin cloak from a wardrobe.  
  
“But where are you going?” protested another. “You cannot ride without an escort even within the city! Please wait, and allow us to prepare ourselves.” They gathered in a tight knot around her, and some ventured to reach out and hold her fast.

“I need no escort, for I ride to the Meneltarma, and none of you dare follow me,” Miriel snapped.

The women grew pale with fear. The oldest stammered, “But that is forbidden—what will the King and Lord Annatar say?”

“I care not!” Miriel snarled the words as her frustration built over the stupidity she was forced to contend with. She shook off their restraining hands and pointed at the sky. “Are you all so blind? An eagle of Manwe flew over at dawn, and that means the moment of truth has come to all of us whether we will or no! I go to pray, and you should too, that my entreaties do not fall on deaf ears! Now stand aside, or I swear I will knock you to the ground!”

The women shrank back with stunned expressions as she swept out of the chamber and hurried down the endless flight of stairs to the stables. The stable boy mercifully gave her no argument, and she was soon mounted on her favorite mare and galloping through the streets. She could hear brief snatches of conversation as she passed, full of open shock that the Queen would appear before them in such disarray. _Little do they know!_ She bent over her mare and urged her to even greater speed; soon she heard nothing but the whistling of the wind in her ears, though she thought for a fleeting moment that she heard the clear ringing of trumpets sounding a battle cry.

But while the wind blotted out much, it could not stop the constant parade of images spinning through her memories, fragments of the past that came careening back to both haunt and comfort her. She remembered the day her father had gifted her with Telperien’s pearls as he spoke of his pride in her. She saw herself taking the sceptre, full of hope she could continue Palantir’s work of repentance, and then she recalled the slow torture at Pharazon’s hands that had crushed her spirit and doomed her people. And finally Isildur swum up before her inner vision, his face full of compassion and love, his lips and hands reanimating her, but only after it was long past mattering.

Her heart clutched up, and she shook her head to clear it. _No! I do have time for the past--the present is all that I must think of now!_ The galloping pace soon wiped away all other thought, and she focused on the words she needed to sing in order to stave off disaster. When she arrived at the foot of the Meneltarma, Miriel flung herself off her horse and dashed to the long-unused stairway that led to the holiest of all shrines, the sacred Hallow of Eru Iluvatar. _Please, please do not let me be too late!_ But as she placed her foot upon the first stair, she heard it—the noise that told her that all was lost. It was like nothing she had ever encountered; it was if the earth itself was screaming in pain, a pain beyond anything known to mere mortals.

Miriel whirled around, her heart pounding as she looked down, disbelief etched in every line of her being as she beheld the utter destruction before her.

The whole island had broken apart, the fissures widening as the sea rushed in to engulf everything in its path. Tall towers and splendid mansions, moldering tombs and regal statues, beautiful flowers and glorious art—everything was tumbling into the all-swallowing maw of the ocean as the waters consumed all in their path. The earth beneath her feet trembled uncontrollably, and the Meneltarma shook as fire erupted from its peak. She stumbled and fell as the world rocked crazily and swayed around her.

As she sprawled weeping upon the ground, she could hear—even over the howling of the wind and the roar of the sea—the screams of the men and women and children as they drowned, all of Numenor vanishing in the blink of an eye, even unto the tiniest babe in arms. She struggled back up and stood sobbing as her far sight fell on the foul Temple. There she saw Sauron laughing on his dark throne, head thrown back in gleeful mirth at his triumph. _No! He of all beings cannot be allowed to live!_ But even as the thought came to her, the Temple collapsed and fell, disappearing into the cold abyss of the ocean. She laughed in turn, her delight in Sauron’s doom overriding all other feelings. _At last! And does this mean I shall live?_

A fresh roar gave her the answer to her question.

She gazed numbly upon the huge wave that surged up from the sea, a vast wall of water that grew and grew until it seemed to blot out the sky entirely. She could see the feathery plumes on its top, the debris carried in its awesome wake. And she could also see that it would submerge everything in its path—even the Meneltarma.

An animal-like scream erupted from her lungs as mindless terror seized her. She began scrambling up the stairs, panic propelling upwards to her possible salvation. _No, not this, Eru, have mercy . . ._

But even as her prayer formed, another thought in her head whispered, _Why? Why should you be saved? What have you ever done to deserve redemption? It was your cowardice, your weakness that brought Numenor to this pass. If you had not yielded the sceptre so easily, this evil would not have come._

She thought again of Isildur, awaiting the worst on his ship, and his courage when faced with death the night he came to her. _Shall I be a coward again? Or shall I finally prove myself a true child of Tar-Minyatur’s line, one who can embrace her fate without flinching?_

Miriel stopped and swung around. The great wave was nearly upon her now; she could see the chill pale-green depths and pearly-white foam. She stood straight as a wand and flung her arms skyward, ecstasy flooding her as she sought release.

_Take me into your arms, Lord Ulmo, if you will. Turn my bones to shining coral and my eyes to glistening pearls so that I may grace your halls with my beauty throughout all eternity. Give me peace at last, I beg of you._

The wave crashed over her, wrapping her in its icy fingers and caressing her like the tender lover she had never possessed. The shrieking wind floated her dying cry to the birds overhead, who heard nothing but despair; but if any of the race of Man were there to hear, he would have heard the joy in her voice.

 

* * * * *

  
_“In an hour unlooked for by Men this doom befell, on the nine and thirtieth day since the passing of the fleets. Then suddenly fire burst from the Meneltarma, and there came a mighty wind and a tumult of the earth, and the sky reeled, and the hills slid, and Numenor went down into the sea, with all its children and its wives and its maidens and its ladies proud; and all its gardens and its halls and its towers, its tombs and its riches, and its jewels and its webs and its things painted and carven, and its laughter and its mirth and its music, its wisdom and its lore; they vanished for ever. And last of all the mounting wave, green and cold and plumed with foam, climbing over the land, took to its bosom Tar-Miriel the Queen, fairer than silver or ivory or pearls. Too late she strove to ascend the steep ways of the Meneltarma to the holy place; for the waters overtook her, and her cry was lost in the roaring of the wind.”_

\--“Akallabeth,” _The Silmarillion._

  



End file.
